by Beth Saadati
It was a gathering I’d neither expected—nor wanted—to host.
From 5-9 p.m. the Mackey Mortuary visitation line refused to
end. Truth be told, I didn’t want it to. In order to stand, I needed the
comforting presence of family and friends.
One after another they paused then passed by. From Miracle
Hill Ministries, where my husband worked. The places where I taught. City Church.
My daughter’s schools. Jenna’s extra-curricular activities—orchestra, Awana,
homeschool co-op, Upward and rec-league sports. And, at the end, the entire
Southside High School marching band.
Beautiful faces met my gaze with unspoken questions and
tears. With tenderness, “I’m sorry” was said again and again. A scent-blend of
perfume and cologne lingered on my clothes as I cherished the warmth of held
hands and hugs.
And I cried when a friend whispered the words I’d begun to
doubt: “You were a good mom.”
But the unexpected occurred when John Burdick—Sterling
School’s science teacher everyone loved, whom Jenna had confided in and
considered a friend—and his wife, Kathy, stood there.
“John’s number is in the school directory,” Kathy said. “When
things settle down in a couple of months and people stop coming around, contact
us. We’ve lost a child too.”
I tucked those words away, journeyed through the weeks, and
took too long to call. Seven months later, however, I picked up the phone.
John and Kathy issued an instant invitation to hang out at
their house. While their 22-year-old son delighted and distracted my young kids
with Mario Kart, we talked. About Jenna's after-school conversations
and the familiar teen struggles she’d shared. About the happy memories we had of
her and how it seemed wrong that she was gone.
The hours sped by. My husband, Komron, joined us after work.
The Burdicks ordered pizza, then John asked the question few dared: “How are
the two of you doing?”
We reiterated what our counselor had said—that the death of
a child takes its marital toll. She’d cautioned us against blaming one another as
we chased the elusive “why.” She’d warned us we’d grieve in different ways, at
different times, and often feel unknown. She’d encouraged us to share the deep
grief with other trusted friends, because it was too much for a spouse alone to
bear.
I’d heeded the wise advice. Nevertheless, home, with
memories of Jenna everywhere I turned, was often the hardest place to reside.
John listened and nodded his head. Then he told the story of
losing his firstborn nine-month-old son, Jonathan, twenty years ago. Fresh
tears fell as he recounted giving his namesake a ride in the baby trailer
attached to his bike when a drunk driver struck.
“The grief changes shape,” said John. “You’ll never get over
it, but you’ll get through it. And, while I may not be a happier person, I
believe I’m a better person. For one thing, I treasure my
students more, because I know how precious life is.”
The words resonated. He understood.
Then he smiled and looked at his wife. “Also, I stayed
married, because there’s no one who would know our son the way Kathy did. There
would never be anyone else who had walked through that with me.”
This time I was the student, sitting at the feet of the
teacher Jenna adored. I pulled a tiny black notebook from my purse and wrote down
the perfect words spoken at just the right time. It was what I needed to hear
then. It’s what I remind myself of now.
From a daughter's three-year absence, part of my
identity and future is temporarily gone. Feelings of helplessness arise from having
been unable to protect and provide. Triggered anger, guilt, sorrow, and despair
sometimes litter my marriage with emotional distance and conflict that
shouldn’t be there.
Nevertheless, Komron has chosen to stay. So have I. Because
too much has already been lost.
Is it easy? No. But we need each other. Like John said,
there will never be anyone else. However messy marriage gets after a child’s
death, with the grace God provides, this, at least, can be one vow—one
covenant—kept.
I was of that Awana group... I often pray for your family.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Hillary, for caring both then and now. I'm grateful. It's made a difference.
DeleteSo incredibly beautiful, Beth. Thank you for transparency. You are a blessing to many, my friend.
ReplyDeleteAs are you. Thanks for your constant encouragement, Cathy.
DeleteAs always, beautifully written, Beth. I know nothing of the grief you experience, except the small glimpses I get through your writing. However, your stories continue to enlighten and inspire me. I will continue to lift you and Komron up in prayer.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Lyneta. Your words and heart bless me.
DeleteThank you for sharing of this special teacher in your daughter's life. I'd say the timing was just when God knew you needed the words. I'm sorry for his grief as well.
ReplyDeleteAs am I. I can't imagine the pain of losing one so young. His story cut to my heart.
DeleteYes, God's timing was so good. The way John and Kathy vulnerably shared and reached out to us was beautiful, touching us at our core.
Thanks, Daphne, for your kind response.
Beth, I love you.
ReplyDeleteAnd I love you, Dee Dee. Thinking of you and your love for Jim after what's been lost. Thank you for living it out for me to see.
Delete<3
ReplyDeleteThanks, Mary. It's the craziest thing, but whenever I see your name come up it makes me deep-place happy. :)
DeleteWordless. Again.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Marcia, for reading and sharing the journey with me.
DeleteYour beautiful, heart-rending words always reveal new glimpses of understanding I've never known before. Thank you for your transparency and for helping us become more aware of the unimaginable loss parents feel. I continue to pray for you and your precious family. Praising God for your commitment, even when it's so hard.
ReplyDeleteYou're welcome, Vonda. Thank you for praying and sending such beautiful and encouraging words back.
DeleteI am always struck by your transparency but most moved by your courage. And again your courage speaks volumes to me, the courage to stay when running away would be easier on some levels. But then where could you run to escape the pain? You have chosen wisely. And continue to live courageously. <3
ReplyDeleteThese are good words, Elaine. Very true. There isn't really anywhere to go. I keep asking the Father for courage to face the pain instead of isolating myself and running away. It encourages me to hear that perhaps He's been doing just that. Thank you.
DeleteI wasn't sure how to respond, either via the phone or through this comment section. I finally decided on this so that I could take my time and arrange my thoughts. First of all, you are an amazing writer. I read all of your blog entries as well as all of the sections at the top and was hungry for more. It made me feel closer to Jenna (whom I did NOT know was Jennifer!), although I still miss her fiercely and feel cheated by not getting to watch her grow up. That feeling never goes away. She was spectacular, and the world is an uglier place without her in it. Second, you made me cry for the first time in 20 years. It was a combination of missing Jenna, sorrow for your loss and missing Jonathan, still. It felt good. Thank you. YOU are a truly special person and obviously, Jenna was your daughter.
ReplyDeleteI read this to Komron when it came through my email and have silently read it several times since. It's beyond beautiful, John--your heartfelt and transparent words, hearing that you read and entered in, seeing how you continue to remember and love my daughter and your son. You have been and are both an incredible teacher and friend. My family is forever grateful--and better off--for having you and Kathy in it.
DeleteI wasn't sure how to respond, either via the phone or through this comment section. I finally decided on this so that I could take my time and arrange my thoughts. First of all, you are an amazing writer. I read all of your blog entries as well as all of the sections at the top and was hungry for more. It made me feel closer to Jenna (whom I did NOT know was Jennifer!), although I still miss her fiercely and feel cheated by not getting to watch her grow up. That feeling never goes away. She was spectacular, and the world is an uglier place without her in it. Second, you made me cry for the first time in 20 years. It was a combination of missing Jenna, sorrow for your loss and missing Jonathan, still. It felt good. Thank you. YOU are a truly special person and obviously, Jenna was your daughter.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Beth. Beautiful...just beautiful.
ReplyDeleteYou're very welcome, Sharron. I'm honored that you read it.
DeleteI don't know of the sorrow of losing a precious child, but I do know the sorrow of loss and the toll it has on one's marriage. But God is good and faithful. Through difficulties and disappointments, He remains, and thus, He gives us what we need to remain as well. Thank you for sharing, again, such beautiful words. You live a beautiful testimony of God's grace.
ReplyDeleteYou're most welcome, Becky. Thanks for reading; strength comes from knowing others care and understand. And, yes, what you say is true. The Father's close presence, here, gets me through.
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